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From her vantage, Emma strained her eyes to see who this newcomer was. Even though she realized how foolish the hope was, for a fleeting moment, she thought it was her father. As the fire cast its light on the tall set of buckskins approaching the fire, Emma's hopes of rescue quickly evaporated and her heart sank. It was another Indian.

Josiah held his rifle in a casual manner to show the Blackfoot that he was friendly. He spoke Blackfoot fluently, though the two Indians saw that he was dressed more in the style of a mountain man, than a Blackfoot warrior. The two alert Indians eyed Josiah warily.

"I've come far," Josiah spoke to them in Blackfoot, "from the land to the South." He motioned to his stomach. "No buffalo for many moons. Much hunger."

One Indian motioned for him to come closer to the fire.

Cautiously peering from around her tree, Emma squinted her eyes to see what was going on. A while back, her spectacles had been lost when she and her father had crossed a fast moving river in their wagon. Though the water had also swept away most of her belongings, she had missed her spectacles and their family Bible the most.

After trading a few handfuls of coffee beans for some freshly killed elk meat, the two Blackfoot allowed Josiah to join them at the fire. While Josiah cooked his meat and turned it every now and then, he told them of his miserable luck. "No beaver," he sighed. "Traps all empty."

The two Indians laughed. "White man's medicine is no good."

Josiah pulled at the small wooden bottle hanging from his belt and tossed it to the nearest Indian. "Blackfoot medicine," he pointed to the bottle.

The Blackfoot opened it and took a quick sniff of the rank odor. "Traps bad," he concluded, and tossed it back to Josiah.

"Traps good," Josiah insisted. "Luck bad." His gaze returned to the meat cooking near the fire. Out of the corner of his eye, he could dimly make out a woman's form crouched beside a tree a little ways from the campfire. Her arms were wrapped around a portion of the tree's wide trunk, while rope finished the distance between her bound hands, making it impossible for her to move or even lay down. "Luck very bad," he repeated to himself slowly, knowing that the two Blackfoot were still listening. "Need to get drunk."

At this, the two Indians sat alert and at attention. "Whiskey?" asked one. "You have whiskey?"

"I have whiskey," nodded Josiah.

"You give whiskey," the older Indian demanded.

Calmly, Josiah regarded the cooking meat. "Can't get drunk," he shook his head gravely. "Just half a jug."

"You give," insisted the Indian once more.

Josiah thought it over, and slowly shook his head. "Last jug is worth much."

The Blackfoot waited for Josiah to name his price.

"Much bad luck," Josiah sighed. "Need woman to make happy again. Need wife."
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